


One Temporary Escape

by Daiako (Achrya)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, BDSM, Bathing/Washing, Caretaking, Hand Feeding, Light Bondage, M/M, Minor Dwalin/Nori, Non-Sexual Submission, Service Submission, Sexual Content, Thorin is hard on himself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2018-12-29 17:32:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12089916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achrya/pseuds/Daiako
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield, King of Durin’s Folk, knows very well how to take care of himself and has no need for a Dom. Bilbo Baggins, gentlehobbit of Bag End and most certainly not a burglar, has long since settled into a respectable life and has no need to take on a submissive. Gandalf, meddling wizard and all around pain in the ass, doesn't seem to much care what they think. And so comes about the meeting of Thorin and Bilbo, a series of unexpected events, and a growing understanding that what one needs is sometimes less important than what one wants.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to do a little BDSM AU with dwarves because I thought it’d make for some potentially interesting cultural things (yeah, I know, not for the porn? What? I'm weird.) And the I couldn’t decide if I wanted Dom!Thorin/Sub!Bilbo or Sub!Thorin/Dom!Bilbo and decided fuck it, I’ll do both in vaguely similar universes. This, obviously, is the sub!Thorin version. It is mostly fluff and comfort, tbh.

“Ah, there it is.” Gandalf said, gesturing ahead of them at a round door painted a deep green. “Bag End. I believe the solution to more than one of our problems will be found there.” 

Thorin pulled his hood further over his eyes, frown deepening as he took in the manicured grass, blooming flowers in their fancy boxes, and delicate looking curtains in the round windows of the hobbit hole. “So you keep saying, wizard.” 

“So I say indeed.” Gandalf said loftily then, thick eyebrows knitting together, added “It would be nice if you had a bit more faith in my suggestions.” 

Thirin scoffed. “I’m here, am I not? Do you require a bigger show of faith?” 

To say he was skeptical of Gandalf’s proposed ‘solutions’ was an understatement. His company had need of a burglar of the non-dwarrow variety, according to the wizard, but he didn’t see how they were to find it among the peaceful and isolated hobbits. And the other ‘problem’ was purely of Gandalf’s creation and Thorin had only agreed to the wizard’s meddling in hopes he’d prove once and for all that he, Thorin Oakenshield, King of Durin’s Folk, had no need for a dominant. He would not have been on this foolish trip at all if Gandalf had not held the information needed to reclaim Erebor. The wizard insisted on nattering on and on about the state Thorin was in, insisting he couldn't hope to journey to Erebor ad he was. Thorin had been prepared to ignore Gandalf and even gather those who would risk such a quest and proceed without the wizard when, finally, they'd struck a deal. Gandalf would, if Thorin put forth an honest effort at working with what he called a ‘unique’ dom and would even consider accepting him for the quest, cease bringing up any more concerns about sub drop, being vulnerable to hostile doms, or ‘exhaustion’ (as if Thorin could afford to be exhausted when there was always so much to do).

All the better if his family and friends would also cease their not at all subtle suggestions that he find a long term Dom of his own and setting him up on painful ‘dates’ with any bit already scared off by his reputation. 

He would hold up his end of the bargain, even if he had no idea how he to take one of these tiny Shirefolk seriously.

Thorin knew exactly nothing about how hobbits treated the different types, designations among men, dynamics among the elves, and what dwarrow called The Spirits, in their culture. He didn’t even know what they called them. He knew little of hobbits in general, except that they traded and dealt with his people fairly and seemed to live lives of plenty, though not without their share of work, so it was no surprise he lacked knowledge in that area. There had never been a need to know more because it wasn’t something that factored into business. 

As he followed Gandalf along the road towards a hobbit hole the green door and what else he wasn’t entirely sure, he wished he’d put a bit more effort into better understanding the people of the Shire.

If Balin ever heard him admit that he’d never be able to live it down. Still, it was very much the truth. 

Thorin knew that among men there were may who viewed those created to be submissives as lesser, especially in their males. Likewise they viewed dominance in their females to be an undesirable trait. Many dominant males seemed to think of obedience and respect as something they were entitled to from all those around them, moving about with a swagger to their step and harsh demands in their voice.

He’d seen that in some towns they made their submissives, even those without dedicated dominants, wear thick identifying collars with functional but ugly locks and tags, stamped with the names of their fathers or the male dominant they ‘belonged ’ to. Those subs had to keep their eyes trained on the ground, speak only when spoken too, wore very little and sometimes nothing at all even when winter made taverns chilly or the sub showed discomfort, had to run and fetch for their so-called masters, and then faded into the background unless being shown off.

Or punished. 

Some kingdoms of men even denied rightfully born kings a throne if they were named submissive when they came of age. 

Because of all of that Dwarrow hid themselves from men when they did business or lived alongside them. They hid their dams behind male names, hid their spirits by claiming submissives didn’t leave their mountains, and Thorin always kept secret his true name, because to let men know too much was to invite trouble. Men could be cruel beyond measure and if they treated their own so poorly there was no doubt they would treat a dwarf worse. 

Among their own there was no need for such deception.The story of Durin told them all that when true life was breathed into Durin a submissive spirit had been placed in him as well and that forever after the king lived in service to his people. So, while the line of kings had seems doms, subs, switches, and non identifiers through the ages, submissives held a special place among Durin’s folk. When Thorin had been deemed a submissive it had been met with celebration, a rare thing in those cold, hard days when he’d been newly ‘crowned’ and desperate to find a place for his people to settle. 

He could still remember his mother, the only fully trained priestess that remained after the vile worm took their home and the disaster of Azanulbizar, smiling with pride as the first burned white for him. It was a sign, she’d called to their people, of hope and promise and his right to rule them. A submissive king, like Durin, when their need was greatest. 

Their joy had been like the heaviest of chains around his neck. 

The pressure on him had eased over the decades but then, when he was young and overwhelmed, there had been a moment of resentment in having more responsibility thrust upon him. There had been fear because his father was gone and he’d been unsure a submissive king was truly what his people needed. He had learned all his life that there was no weakness in having a submissive spirit and no inherent strength in being a switch or dominant. He saw the strength to lead in his mother, had seen it in his grandmother and so many others. 

He believed in the story of Durin I and the many submissive kings who had come after.

Yet he looked at himself and saw only what he was lacking. Would he have his grandfather’s wisdom, great even when the Sickness had diminished him. Would he be obeyed and followed unquestionably as his father had been? Would his people look on him and see he was terrified? Would there be more mithril in his spine if he had a dominant spirit? 

There were markers of the different spirits and many ways to wear them. Some prefered subtle braids or beads, some permanent marks on the skin in ink or scar, jeweled cuffs and collars, pendants, or perhaps nothing at all, as Thorin had always opted for. The ways to mark oneself were as varied and individual as the ways dwarrows expressed their spirits and found their matches, or decided not to find matches. 

This was where Thorin knew he didn't...work, as it were. He’d yet to find anyone who suited his tastes or understood the unique position being king put him in, nor did he ever expect to. There was no shame in submission and he knew that well (and if he ever hadn’t his mother would happily remind him with slap to the back of the head) but he found that what the doms he’d encountered usually craved was something he couldn’t give and there was shame in that. 

He didn’t care for pain. Hated it, actually, especially in the ways dominants seemed to like to dish it out, liberally and with such delight. Maybe it was seeing Erebor laid low or all the fighting he had seen and done since, all the death that lurked forever st the edge of everything, the many horrors painted on the back of his eyelids, or all the pain he had already endured, that made him feel that way. Either way he didn’t like scenes that ran in that direction. Submitting to pain and degradation at the hands of another wasn’t something he took pleasure from. He had done it, and could do it, but there was nothing in it that was for *him*, so much as pleasing the one he was with. (And he did like to please, to have others be happy with him, so he'd done his best to bite his lip and *endure*)

Not because he was king and thought it beneath him but because there was no pleasure in sensation that reminded him of the worst moments of his life. He hurt and thought of their lost home, he bled and saw the shattered form of his brother, and he had yet to be able to shake those associations.

Bondage was something else he couldn't find it in himself to enjoy properly, rendered immobile and unsure of what might be happening next, except that it almost always involved some form of pain. Even in the hands of one he trusted with his life, like Dwalin, he found he couldn’t let go enough to enjoy it. Or to satisfy the partners he’d so rarely taken in his youth. While There was none would dare speak unkindly of him where he might overhear it he was aware of the rumor that he was fussy, impossible to please, and couldn’t set aside being king well enough to submit. He was the worst kind of Brat, allegedly. 

There were some who enjoyed a Brat, Dwalin certainly found that trait endearing in Nori, but Thorin wasn't really that. Still he allowed the rumor, thinking it preferable to the truth: he wanted to lay his troubles and the heavy responsibilities in his life at the feet of another, to be wanted and pampered and cared for, to be kept and reassured, to be rewarded not punished. He craved the softness and praise that came after scenes more than anything that had ever happened during them.

But he knew that wasn’t how it worked. Coddling of that manner came from family or as a reward for good behavior. It was the after, not the during, and he was expected to go through the other things his chosen partner may desire before he got it. But he’d rarely left scenes satisfied and neither had the ones he’d spend his time with; most could not find pleasure in a sub who did nothing but endure what was done to them. And those who did find their enjoyment that way were of no interest to Thorin and so he was brought back to the beginning of the issue. 

He was flawed, a gem whose color was slightly off, with feathering threatening the structure. He hadn’t settled the way he should have or, perhaps, life had worn him down the wrong way.

After a point Thorin had resolved to take care of himself. It was easier that way.

He had a system to keep himself steady and had done so for years without ill effect, contrary to the belief that doms, subs, and switches needed regular time and care or risk suffering in their day to day lives. He decided his own rewards and even punishments, though he hated them, and kept to them. On a very good day he might let Dis coddle him a bit and soak up the presence of a dominant who wanted nothing from him except for him to be calm and content or visit with his mother and be stuffed with sweet cakes alongside his nephews. 

And in the bad times, when his failures lined up to stretch out before him, he denied himself the things that brought him happiness. He avoided the forge, refused to let himself sketch out or imagine new projects, stayed away from his family as much as possible. 

In Kili’s twentieth year a mine shaft collapse killed a half dozen and injured another two dozen, including Vili, Dis’ husband. In the aftermath he’d placed Dis as interim ruler and left the Blue Mountains for nearly three years. Officially he’d been looking for Thrain, and it was true that he’d pieced together enough rumored sightings to plot a course to Rohan and Emyn Muil and that he’d intended to go soon. But going then, alone, and staying away so long had been to punish himself. There had been minimal contact with his family and friends and it was only when he’d run out of leads to chase and his guilt became less of a crushing weight on his head that he allowed himself to return. 

He managed on his own just fine. Did he not know himself better than anyone else ever could? Did he not always hold himself accountable, grant himself small kindnesses when he deserved them, and punishments harsher than any would think to lay on him when they were needed? Could he not gleam small comforts from those around him?

Thorin had no need for a dominant in his life. 

“ _ But _ ,” He heard his mother, whiskey voiced and warm, in his head as Gandalf rang the hobbit hole’s bell. “ _ What do you want _ ?” 

To not hear voices would be first and foremost. 

Being able to return home promptly and begin planning for Erebor would be a very close second. Peace for his people. To see Smaug skinned and his scales turned into the finest armor and his bones fashioned into beads, bangles, maybe even a comb or two to bestow on his sister-sons.  

The door opened. 

“Gandalf? Your letter said you were to be here a week ago! Why, it’s nearly supper time and I have nothing prepared for a guest.” Gandalf cleared his throat then shifted to the side, allowing the hobbit to see Thorin and Thorin to see the hobbit. 

“Thorin, this Bilbo Baggins. Bilbo, this is Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin inclined his head slightly. “At your service.” 

“At yours and your family’s.” The hobbit said, looking pained.

He looked, with his hands on his hip, body framed by warm golden light, and frown going from annoyed to confused, like...well. A hobbit. Small, soft and a bit on the round side in place, pointed ears poking through thick curls, hairless face, big hairy feet, and wide eyes. Nothing about them was what Thorin would call impressive at first blush, to the contrary this hobbit was perfectly ordinary. 

Boring, even. 

Thorin could not imagine him in the wilds, battling hunger, cold, and discomfort and he certainly couldn’t picture as the ‘miracle’ dominant the wizard seemed convinced he was. Thorin was already wondering how long it would take for Gandalf to agree he’d put in a good faith effort (A day? Two?) and put this foolishness to rest when the hobbit’s eyes focused on him.  

A shock raced down Thorin’s spine. He took a step back unconsciously and his hands clenched at his side. Gray-blue eyes swept over him from head to toe, narrowing as the hobbit’s mouth flattened out into a thin line. The hobbit’s gaze had a near physical presence, rushing over him with ghostly fingers and bubbling warmth; Thorin’s skin tingled in the wake of it. 

Time stretched on, seconds doubling, tripling, and the hobbit finally looked him in the eye. Thorin’s breath caught in his throat. Something flickered on the hobbit’s face.

“You look terrible.” 

Thorin blinked. Gandalf sighed. The moment shattered and Thorin found himself gritting his teeth and letting more irritation leak into his voice than was strictly proper for a first meeting. “Excuse me?” 

The hobbit jerked back, hand coming up to cover his mouth. “Oh! I am...that was awful. I didn’t mean- sometimes I speak without-oh, bother it-...I. You should come inside.” 

Thorin cast a glance up at Gandalf. “This is your burglar?” 

“Burglar?” The hobbit’s head snapped so he too was focused on the wizard. “Who? Me? What?” 

“He looks more like a grocer than a burglar. Or a dominant.” 

The hobbit’s face cycled rapidly through a series of emotions before settling into blankness. His tone matched, polite and with an iron edge that poked at the edge of that tingling sensation (Thorin bit the inside of his cheek as hard as he could stand to give himself something else to focus on), but otherwise giving away nothing at all. “You really should come inside. Now, before the neighbors start poking their heads out and the gossip begins.” 

Thorin was tempted to refuse, his mother and Dis both accused him of having a tendency towards petulance and he wasn’t above admitting there was some truth to it, but a look from Gandalf had him rolling his eyes and stepping into the home. A good faith effort, he told himself as he looked around the brightly lit entrance hall, did at least require him to step inside. Even if the hobbit he’d come to meet with had already proven to be incredibly rude.  

The hobbit took his coat and, after some muttering and looking about, found a place for him to put more cumbersome of his weapons. They were ushered into the kitchen and plates of cheese, cold meat, and bread were placed in front of them in short order, accompanied by wine for an appreciative Gandalf and ale for Thorin. 

Bilbo left them for a few minutes, seemingly to put on proper clothing, and when he turned it was with a pensive expression on his face. 

“I must be blunt with you Master Oakenshield, I have no idea what nonsense Gandalf has fed you-” The wizard let out an offended noise. Neither Bilbo or Thorin spared him so much as a glance. “But I am no burglar, I have never stolen a thing in my life aside from biscuits from the jar as a faunt. And I am, most assuredly, not in search of a sub. We do not have such...provoclities in the Shire.” 

“It’s rare, is what Bilbo means.” Gandalf said to Thorin as if the hobbit weren’t right in front of him and he were imparting some sort of secret. “The majority of hobbits are what you would call ‘non-identifiers’.” 

“I see.” Thorin said slowly, not sure what to make of that. An entire race of mostly non-identifiers? He could scarcely wrap his brain around such a concept but then dwarrows were a people where many didn’t feel the stirrings of physical need or a desire for ‘romantic’ partnerships and when compared to men such a thing was strange indeed. “If you were aware of that then why this pointless trip? I will not allow you to back out of our deal-”

“Deal?”

Gandalf waved a hand dismissively. “No one is backing out of anything, I assure you. Bilbo is one of a handful of identifiers, though it seems he’s chosen to pretend otherwise in recent years. Rather than find a match outside of the Shire, he’d decided to be  _ respectable _ .”

“You needn’t say it like that.” 

“His mother would be mortified.”

Bilbo’s ears went red at the tips. “Now see here-”

“And even if he weren’t the dom you need-”

“My mother would not appreciate you barging in here, trying to push some exhausted sub on me with no explanation, make no mistake about that,” 

Exhausted? Why did people insist on using that word? ...did he really look so tired? 

“He is the burglar for you, of that I am certain,”

“I am no burglar! Honestly, Gandalf, this is-”

“And taking him on your quest will serve you well.” 

“Quest?” 

“To reclaim their ancestral home, Erebor, and perhaps slay a dragon.”

“Dragon!” The hobbit paled. 

“It should be quite the adventure and I think it would serve you both well if Bilbo was to accompany you. There is more to him than even he knows.”

“No.” Thorin said, finally able to get a word in edgewise. 

“Absolutely not!” 

Gandalf smiled brightly. “Look, you’ve come to agree on something already. That’s encouraging.” 

Bilbo looked unimpressed and Thorin felt the same. The hobbit shook his head, curls falling into his eyes, and turned back to Thorin. “I’m sorry Gandalf has brought you all this way for nothing but, if you’ll accept, I would offer you a bath and a bed for the night.” 

Thorin considered the hobbit’s open, earnest face then sighed. He was the intruder here and, irritated as he was, he knew it wasn’t hobbit’s doing. Gandalf was playing at some sort of game, and wasting precious time that could be spent planning for the quest, but that was something Thorin would have to deal with on his own time. 

“That-” 

“Sounds like a grand idea.” Gandalf interrupted. Thorin’s lip curled. 

Maybe he would deal with the wizard now.

“No. You’ll be staying at the inn.” Bilbo pointed at the wizard. Gandalf looked as if he was going to argue but Bilbo laid a pointed look on the wizard. Gandalf closed his mouth and, to Thorin’s shock, looked almost chagrined. Bilbo eyed him a moment longer before nodding and standing back up. “I will see to your bath Master Oakenshield, and air out a room for the night. Please, continue to eat.” 

“Well,” Gandalf said once the hobbit had left them alone. “I think that went rather well, don’t you?”

Thorin shoved a slice of roast beef into his mouth to keep himself from speaking. A good faith, genuine attempt did not, he was sure, involve yelling at the wizard. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than I meant to for an update, sadly. My actual life is kicking my ass. It's tragic.

Bilbo could hear them, low wordless murmurs that drifted through the open door of the bathroom. Gandalf’s voice was smoother, familiar, and filled most of the space. The dwarf’s was lower, rough, coming in short clipped bursts. It was impossible to know what they were speaking of but it sounded tense, the back and forth urgent and tense. The dwarf did not sound particularly pleased, at least not to Bilbo’s ears. 

But that wasn’t for him to dwell on, was it? No, he was going to do his duty as a good host and stay out of whatever else was going on. That was what was most sensible and Bilbo liked to think he was just that. 

There were a great many good points about living in Bag End in Bilbo’s fairly expert opinion. It had a fairly nice view of Hobbiton, placed as it was, had been built upon some of the most fertile ground there was which made for an enviable garden, and it was quite large (Bungo and Belladonna had planned to have many children and, when that hadn’t worked out, had taken pleasure in hosting family, friends, and the occasional wizard). Plus, being of newer construction as far as Hobbiton went and having had quite a bit of Bungo’s fortune sunk into it, it had some truly impressive plumbing. 

Underground rivers flowed beneath the Shire and most smials had at least a well dug onto the property and water pumps inside, but Bag End had a complete pipe system flowing in and out and, even, a system for warming water in the kitchen and largest bathroom. It took time to get a full bath going, as it still involved lighting a fire and then letting water heat in a tank that sat behind the tub, but it was still more convenient that lugging buckets to and from a fire. 

There had been many times when he found himself impatiently waiting but, in this case, Bilbo was not averse to making use of the time to think about the wizard sitting in his kitchen and the dwarf he’d brought along with him. 

A dwarf! What had Gandalf been thinking bringing a dwarf to his home? His neighbors, who had surely been watching the pair walk the lane, would have the whole of Hobbiton know by morning. They already thought him terribly odd, what with his mother being how she’d been and his not as discreet as they could have been...wanderings in those years after coming of age, goodness only knew what they would think of some heavily armed dwarf coming to stay the night in the company of known trouble stirrer, and fireworks bringer, Gandalf. It had taken time to repair what little of his reputation he had.

It was one thing for him to have run around with men when he was younger but a dwarf was a different matter altogether. No one would know what to make of a dwarf visiting for seemingly personal reasons

Not that Bilbo was unfamiliar with dwarrows or took any issue with them; they came through the Shire to find work and sell things regularly, but none had ever shown more than a professional interest in any hobbit that he was aware of, and certainly no subs (or doms or any dwarf at all) had ever approached him before. Not that he went around advertising that he was interested in such things so it wasn't as if any passing dwarf would think to look upon him. Dwarrows didn't wear signs of their place on the spectrum, at least none Bilbo could read, so he’d never thought to make an approach either.  He hadn't even been sure they weren't like Hobbits and mostly outside of the spectrum.

Men, with their collars and often strange rules and actions, were easy to read. 

He had never put much belief in the old fairy tales about instantly knowing when you met someone who was compatible, though it would have been convenient if it were true. He didn’t see how such a thing could exist when there were so many different ways of doing things, so many different desires, people, and ways of getting things done, he didn’t see how there could be a single moment to encompass all of that. Attraction, certainly, or something else that drew one in. A friendly face or laugh, an indication of similar interests, yes. But no singular moment of ‘this person is just right’. 

He wasn’t at all sure he even believed in a person who was just right. Someone you could meet and enjoy, as you did in any relationship, and come to know, understand, and be comfortable with certainly, if one was willing to put in the work. But not a person who was instantly everything another needed, no.

And if he had felt something, a fluttering in his chest, heat low in his stomach, and an itch under his skin well...that could be summed up as a reaction to a fairly attractive dwarf being in his midst. Or, maybe, in seeing a submissive who was so clearly in an unfortunate state; Bilbo had always been weak when it came to those in need. Bag End had been a near constant parade of injured animals and faunts with scraped knees when he'd been a child.

Thorin was no injured bunny or hobbit child who'd fallen from a tree, but he looked completely worn down. Drawn and thin (for a dwarf), with dark shadows under his red rimmed eyes, a sallow tint to his skin, and a sunken look to his face. He stood straight and tall, with strength in his posture, but also like he was struggling under a great weight.

Bilbo wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that Thorin hadn’t slept peacefully in months and had never had a peaceful day in all his life. 

He knew Gandalf had been counting on him being unable to turn away someone who looked like they needed a good meal and sleep. Hobbit hospitality just didn’t allow for such things; when you were called upon you treated your guests well and made sure they always left better than they’d come to you, and to do anything less was shameful. And even if that hadn’t been the case it just wasn't Bilbo’s nature to look at someone in need and walk away.

Gandalf knew that and was counting on it. If Bilbo were a smarter hobbit he would have put them both out after supper no matter how that dwarf looked or what hobbit propriety demanded. 

Yet here he was, pouring fizzing salts and natron into steaming water and assembling an herbal sachet to go with it. Lavender, chamomile, a few leaves of peppermint, and a few drops of diluted lavender oil to go with it, dropped into the tub and swished around. He assembled a few of the different bars of soap, still wrapped on their paper and tied, that Bell Gamgee had given him on her last birthday and placed them by the tub. 

He hesitated in returning to the kitchen, double checking the towels, rag, and various other items he’d stacked up for the dwarf though he knew they were already as they should be. He was wasting time as a child unwilling to face a parent when they’d done wrong would do. Ironic since if anyone had done wrong in this situation it was the damn wizard, not Bilbo. If anything it should be Gandalf dreading his return, not him dithering about in his own bathroom avoiding whatever was coming next! 

With a fortifying breath and a straightening of his spine he made to return to his guests. 

When Gandalf had come by to visit (without sending word) for the first time since Bilbo’s father had died five years ago he’d been...surprised, to say the very least. Surprised but not displeased; he’d always been fond of Gandalf’s stories and games and it had been nice to hear the wizard talk about his mother’s travels and the friends she’d made in her youth. He hadn’t thought anything of the sudden visit, Gandalf had appeared without warning more than a few times when he’d been a faunt, nor the wizard’s off hand promise to return after handling some business with some dwarrows.

He’d gotten a letter a few weeks ago reminding him of the wizard’s promise to visit and giving a time frame, which Gandalf had missed by over a week because he couldn’t even do Bilbo the courtesy of arriving on time, clearly. There had not been any mention of extra guests, something Bilbo would have appreciated a bit of notice about. He could have at least changed the linens in another room and gotten it aired out. As it was only the man sized room was readied to his standards and that wouldn’t do for a dwarf. 

Then again considering what Gandalf seemed to have in mind it was understandable that he would have hidden his true motives. Gandalf knew very well that Bilbo had no desire for quests or journeys that would take him outside of the Shire anymore. Once he’d been a child, hanging on his mother’s every amazing word and running in the woods in hopes of seeing elves and doing great heroic deeds like in the stories Belladonna told him, but he’d placed all that aside. That was what happened when a person grew up, they let go of childhood dreams and whims and learned to be responsible. 

Respectable.

There was nothing respectable about packing up to play burglar and-and slay a dragon! Imagine, him, a hobbit, dealing with a dragon! It was insane! Ridiculous! What was he to do, invite it to tea and swap Shire gossip and cake recipes? Make it a proper meal or two and hope his charm, considered questionable by hobbit standards, would motivate it to not eat him or roast him or step upon him or however it was dragons disposed of idiots who came calling upon it with no ability to fight? 

Why, that just wasn’t who hobbits were! It wasn’t what they did. Such things were tasks for heroes and warriors, like in the stories he kept in his library and had played out with his mother, using sticks as swords and tall grass and trees as enemies. It was not a task for gentlehobbits. 

Gandalf must have taken leave of his senses if he thought otherwise.  

The proof was in the dwarf he’d brought with him. Not just the talk of a quest but the not at all subtle suggestion that Bilbo might play Dom for that dwarf, here in his own home. Gandalf knew very well that hobbits were, for the most part, without the ‘dynamics’ that the other races had and so the relationships that existed between Doms and subs were regarded...without much favor. Not frowned upon, as all could understand that how a hobbit was created wasn’t something they could control, but not something most had any desire to understand either. Such...practices were an oddity in the Shire and hobbits had no great love for oddities, be it in the form of those who liked to travel or those who fell onto the ‘spectrum’. 

In his mother’s case it had been both. There had been a lot of talk about Belladonna Baggins, nee Took, her marriage and her trips to Bree without her husband. The rumors had been less than kind, whispers of unfaithfulness, shameful acts, strange proclivities and his father too much of a weak fool to stand up for himself. Bilbo didn’t know the absolute truth of the matter but he knew his parents had loved each other deeply and that Bungo had been steadfast in insisting that Belladonna had never done wrong by him.  

Bilbo supposed he’d lucked out in having a parent on the spectrum because he had never felt strange, at least not within his own home or anywhere else he was under his mother’s watchful eye. There had been books, frank talks, and constant reassurance that he was as he was meant to be, and when he was old enough quiet encouragement to find others to experiment with in the interest of getting to know himself and his needs and wants. 

Knowing himself, Belladonna had said, was the core of everything else. 

He’d had his fun and made friends, chiefly among the rangers who watched their borders, but after his mother had died and his father had taken ill there hadn’t been time for such pursuits or...well, much of anything. Caring for Bungo had been all he could handle at the time, not an unwanted burden by any stretch but still something that had taken its toll on his mind and body. Once he hadn’t needed to do so anymore it had just felt better to become the sort of hobbit his father would have wanted him to be. Having the Baggins name, and Bag End, be well regarded would have made Bungo proud. 

He’d kept in contact with many of the people he’d met, enjoyed reading about them meeting long term partners, having children, and things of that nature. He was happy for all of them, sent gifts and his warmest wishes on all the appropriate occasions, but he politely declined requests to visit or meet new people his old friends thought might suit him. 

Bilbo understood they did it as a kindness. They were fond of him, even with years between their last meeting, and thought he needed more in his life to be happy. But, good intentions aside, he did not feel he was lacking anything so the offers were easily declined. His life was nice. Comfortable. Easy. Simple. 

Settled. It, and he, were settled. 

Gandalf was offering nothing but upheaval and disruption; Bilbo wanted no part in it. No adventures, no dragons, no submissives, no dwarrows. 

That was just what he would tell the wizard once the dwarf, who Bilbo suspected was no more pleased with the turn of events than he was, was in the bath. 

They were talking quietly when he turned to the kitchen but halted as soon as he stepped into the room. Gandalf settled back in his seat, something suspiciously serene to the air around him, and smiled genially. The dwarf glared up at the wizard, eyes like chips of ice under furrowed brows, before letting his eyes slide over to Bilbo. His expression didn’t lighten much, Bilbo couldn’t help but wonder if his frown was a permanent feature, but some of the tension around his eyes and mouth eased. 

Whatever had him in such a snit was, at least, not directed at him. A good thing, surely. This  dwarf did not look like one that Bilbo would want to be on the bad side of if he could help it. 

“Everything is ready for you Master Dwarf. Just down that hall, the door is open.”

Thorin visibly hesitated then, with one last stormy look in Gandalf’s direction, he rose to his feet and stalked towards Bilbo. He stopped in front of him, the full focus of his sharp blue eyes on Bilbo now; his stomach fluttered. 

He was, really, very nice to look at. Much nicer than one with the dust of the road clinging to them and an ever present glower had any right to be. 

“Thank you, Master Baggins.” 

Bilbo watched him go and, once he had vanished into the bathroom, stepped into the kitchen. He didn’t sit with Gandalf, who was now puffing away on his pipe and looking annoyingly content, but instead gathered a stone pitcher, cups, and a tray for the guest room along with what he’d need to get the fire going. 

“You could have let me know you weren’t coming alone. I would have liked to be prepared for another visitor.” 

Smoke in the form of a bird of some kind drifted past him. “Or turned me away. You are not the curious, fearless hobbit you once were Bilbo-”

“I was a child.” 

“And worse for it I’m afraid.” Gandalf finished, giving no indication he’d even heard him speak. “Still I don’t mean to demand anything of you, merely to ask a favor of an old friend.” 

Bilbo sat the pitcher down on the tray with enough force to send some of the contents sloshing over the rim. “I won’t be chasing any dragons and whatever you told that dwarf about me is...well I don’t know what you told him, but I doubt I would like it.” 

“You might.” Gandalf said, eyes twinkling with mirth. “I’ve spoken very highly of you, I’ll have you know. Anyone would be very impressed.” He paused, eyes sliding to look at something to the side of Bilbo. “Anyone but Thorin, I suppose. He isn’t easily moved.” 

“He doesn’t need to be. I don’t want to  _ move _ anyone, thank you very much.” Bilbo grumbled irritably. And if he had wanted to do such a thing he certainly did need Gandalf’s help to do it. Gandalf’s nodded agreeably; Bilbo huffed then flapped a hand at the wizard. “Just ask for your favor.” 

Assuming it wasn’t anything too absurd he would do his best to grant it. Gandalf had been his mother’s friend, yes, but Bilbo considered him a friend as well. A strange and at the moment bothersome friend but one nonetheless. If he could help him with something, that didn’t sound like a march to his death, then he would do it. 

That earned him a smile, soft and fleeting, before Gandalf sat up straighter and set aside his pipe. “First I would tell you a few things about Thorin, things he would keep to himself if given the chance but-”

“No.” 

Gandalf blinked. “No?” 

“Absolutely no.” Bilbo repeated firmly. Gandalf’s eyebrows lifted in silent question. “I have no desire to hear things about a person they wouldn’t tell me themselves.” 

Gandalf regarded him for a long moment, brows knitted together in thought before nodding. “This will make the matter of fully explaining a bit more complicated.” 

“I’m sure you’ll manage.” 

“It is my hope, Bilbo, that you’ll permit Thorin to take a ‘holiday’ of sorts here, in your home, for a time.” Gandalf said. “There are few places in the world more peaceful than the Shire and peace is just what Thorin needs. This journey he will undertake will be a long one with more dangers than just the dragon at the end and Thorin, and all those who follow him, will need to be at their best to see it through to the end. There can be no mistakes, no hesitation, in what is to come.”

“As he is right now, I’m not sure Thorin would survive to take back what the dragon has stolen. He carries a great weight and it has nearly crushed him. I believe his health, among other things, are beginning to suffer.” Gandalf’s eyes darkened and the shadows seemed to grow long and twist around him. “The success of his quest is more important than I can begin to explain and I cannot allow even Thorin to stand in his own way.”  

A chill crept down Bilbo’s spine and spread through his body. He had never seen Gandalf look so serious or, actually, all that serious at all. This was a new side of the wizard, grave and without humor, older in that moment than he had been a few seconds before. There was a weight to his gaze and Bilbo felt it, pressing down on him. The moment stretched on, ice creeping through his blood and shadows filled the room like they had a physical presence. The air was thick, oppressive. 

The short hairs on his feet stood up.

Bilbo looked down at the tray, a hard lump in his throat. “Even if I were inclined to let a stranger stay in my home I doubt he would stay.” 

There was a shift, like the world was releasing a breath it was holding, and between one beat and the next everything returned to normal and from the corner of his eye he saw Gandalf as he knew him; old, weathered, and on the edge of laughter. 

“He will.” Gandalf sounded completely sure of himself. Far more than he should have considering that even Bilbo could see that the dwarf didn’t want to be there and was only just tolerating the situation. “He’s already agreed. More or less.” 

Bilbo bit back a sigh. That didn’t sound promising at all, did it?

Gandalf left shortly after that, waving away Bilbo’s offer of a room (He’d never really meant for his friend to stay somewhere else for the night, he’d just been making a point about how not pleased he was.) and promising to return by lunch the next day. Bilbo shut the door after him and, mind reeling as he tried to figure out how exactly he’d half-way agreed to Gandalf’s favor, padded down the hallway to one of the guest rooms. 

It didn’t take terribly long to get the room up to inhabitable standards; a fire in the hearth, water on the bedside table and a second pitcher on a table with a small basin and some clothes, new linens, and the lone window was cracked open to let in a cool breeze. It was, he decided, as good as it was going to get with the time he had available. 

His father would have fretted over not being able to clean the glass in the window, scrub the floors, and see things properly aired out but Bungo would have also lit the over and cooked an elaborate meal for his late night guests and tapped a keg for them. His father had always found a lot of pride in being the best host in Hobbiton. Bilbo could only hope that he would forgive him for not upholding his standards just this once.

When he was done he found himself lingering outside of the bathroom, wondering if he should check on his guest. It had been nearly an hour and, as much as he appreciate a good soak himself he didn’t want to be responsible for allowing Gandalf’s dwarf to drown. 

Bungo would have found that beyond unacceptable. 

He rapped on the door, waited a moment then tried again, and, when he received no answer and heard nothing from the other side, pushed the door open just a crack. And sighed. Just as he’d feared Thorin seemed to have fallen asleep in the rub, arms folded along the edge and head pillowed on them, long dark hair released from it’s braids and hanging around him like a curtain.

Even in his sleep he looked troubled, the lines on his face deep and mouth curved into a troubled frown. Bilbo couldn’t imagine what would be so awful that it followed him even into his dreams. It may just explain why he looked so weary, a person couldn’t possibly be getting meaningful rest if they looked so upset could they? No, no he didn’t think they could. 

He pulled the door shut then knocked again, as loud as he could, not stopping until he heard a yelp and a splash followed by coughing and loud sputtering from the other side. He nodded to himself, satisfied. Not very polite but far more appropriate than going in and shaking a nude stranger awake, in his opinion.  

“The room across from this one is made up for you Master Oakenshield. My room is at the end of the hall should you need anything.”

Distinctly unhappy words spat in a language he didn’t know (probably for the best, considering the tone) were his only response. He rocked back on his heels, called a cheerful goodnight, and retreated for the evening. 

Thought he didn’t actually fall asleep until long after he’d heard heavy footsteps in the hall and the sound of a door, creaking from disuse, opening and closing. 


End file.
